


Blessed Unrest

by Goddess_of_the_Night



Series: Dreamscapes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Chair Sex, Cuddling, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insomnia, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Interrogates John in His Sleep, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sleep Kicking, Sleep talking, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wet Dream, With Mind Palace John, comforting touches, sleep experiment, sleep touching, soft sherlock, they comfort each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night
Summary: The sequel to "The Cure for Snoring" where you get to see exactly what kinds of sleep experiments Sherlock has been planning, and how exactly that changes their friendship in to something more."John simply slow blinks at him a few times, mouth actually opening and closing soundlessly twice before he can manage to make words come out, “You aren’t serious.”Sherlock’s head tilts to the left in confusion, “Of course I am. You said you would consent to the experiment I thought up, and I’d like to begin tonight,” he ends by sounding defensive.“Jesus,” John mutters while rubbing his tired face with his left hand, but neither says anything more. It takes a full two minutes before John nods his head in resignation and turns towards the stairs to his room.“John?” Sherlock calls after him uncertainly.“My pajamas are upstairs. I didn’t consent to do the study nude; I’ll be back down in a moment,” he calls without stopping his progress."





	1. Sherlock: The Kicking Sleep-Octopus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't see this happening. I really didn't. But, here you are: five chapters of different sleep "ailments" and how they affect our boys.

It’s three days and one case later before either of them mentions anything.

As they’re taking their coats off and settling back in to the apartment, John yawns and runs a hand roughly through his hair.

“You should sleep in my bed tonight,” Sherlock states, slightly nervous but covering it up by resolutely not looking at the other man as he says it.

“What? Why?” John asks, a bit more awake than a few moments previous.

Sherlock sighs heavily before finally meeting his eyes, “For the sleep experiment,” he elaborates in an _Of course_ tone.

John simply slow blinks at him a few times, mouth actually opening and closing soundlessly twice before he can manage to make words come out, “You aren’t serious.”

Sherlock’s head tilts to the left in confusion, “Of course I am. You said you would consent to the experiment I thought up, and I’d like to begin tonight,” he ends by sounding defensive.

“Jesus,” John mutters while rubbing his tired face with his left hand, but neither says anything more. It takes a full two minutes before John nods his head in resignation and turns towards the stairs to his room.

“John?” Sherlock calls after him uncertainly.

“My pajamas are upstairs. I didn’t consent to do the study nude; I’ll be back down in a moment,” he calls without stopping his progress.

As he hears the door close softly, Sherlock blushes.

By the time John enters his friend’s room, Sherlock is under the covers on the side furthest from the door, messing around on his phone. Sherlock pretends not to take notice of the other man joining him on the bed, and John tries not to blush at the odd feeling of domesticity.

“Are you going to tell me what the experiment entails?” John asks after settling.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums distractedly, “no.”

John huffs a breath out through his nose in annoyance, “Alright. Well is there anything I need to do for this experiment?”

“No, just sleep,” he says before finally looking away from his phone, his eyes softening slightly as they land on John’s face, “Please,” he adds.

John eyes him suspiciously for a moment but is too tired to keep it up. They had been on this last case for three days with hardly any sleep at all and he is _tired_ , dammit! While he originally thought he might not be able to find sleep due to the awkward situation, he finds that sleep finds _him_ instead _._

Sherlock watches John fall deeper in to sleep, cataloging how long it takes (an impressive four minutes and 12 seconds) and how he situates himself. John has fallen asleep on his back, head facing away from Sherlock, and his mouth slightly open. He doesn’t snore – like John has told him that _he_ does – but simply makes little puffing sounds every fifth breath, and he’s bound to drool on his pillow.

Sherlock puts his phone on the nightstand and moves on to his right side, facing John. He’s not incredibly tired, so he focuses his attention on John’s steady breathing. This is how he falls asleep.

John wakes up some time later on his right side and feeling overly warm. It takes him a second to realize the reason is Sherlock’s hand on his neck, keeping his body heat from escaping from the prominent pulse point. He grunts in aggravation as he shakes his upper body to dislodge the scalding hand. When that doesn’t help, he physically removes it and carelessly redirects it towards the other man’s own body. As he waits to cool enough to fall back asleep, he hears Sherlock make a small noise of discontent before he feels the hand resume its position on his neck.

John grunts in aggravation again (too tired to choose another noise) before flinging the hand off once more and moving to lie on his back. This time, when Sherlock seeks him out, he nearly chokes John when his hand lands heavily on his adam’s apple. John splutters before grabbing the hand and pushing it down his body. With Sherlock’s hand resting lightly on his stomach, John finds peace enough to sleep once more.

A swift kick to his left lower leg wakes him with a jolt and a hiss. “Shite,” John cusses, because Sherlock is apparently also a kicker in his sleep. By the power behind the action, John reasons that he might have missed his calling as a damn good football player at one point. John turns on to his right side, disgruntled, as he attempts to place as much space between them as possible.

Over the next unknown amount of time – the enigma that is the world of sleep vs waking existing somehow outside of the common laws of time – John continuously finds himself being woken by either Sherlock’s hand somewhere annoying, or being kicked by the boniest feet in the world. It’s not quite as intrusive as his snoring was (which is somehow magically not an issue tonight), but he’s still unable to get the restful night’s sleep that he craves.

John’s body knows the answer to the problem, even if his brain is too muddled to remember it at the moment.

So with a heavy, tired sigh, John flips over to his left side and pulls Sherlock in to his arms as their legs intertwine almost in a lock. He sighs again, in contentment this time, as he buries his face in Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock - while not having an overtly interrupted sleep all night like John - finally, for the first time this night, settles in to a restful doze.

This is the way Sherlock wakes up: John in his arms, their legs entwined intimately.

He has no idea how they came to be in this position.

“John?” He asks quietly, trying to pull away slightly.

John, just like the last time, pulls him back closer to him reflexively before responding groggily, “You kick,” he says as he moves his right leg against Sherlock’s, “and you’re handsy, you bloody sleep-octopus.” It’s not actually an accurate descriptor for Sherlock’s apparent need to touch him in the night, but his sleep brain loves the title anyway.

Sherlock is shocked in to silence as he takes in this information. He clears his throat slightly before asking, “Did I snore?”

John’s head shakes before he vocalizes the answer, “No, thank God.”

Sherlock’s brain works around the information as John falls back in to a comfortable, warm slumber. It’s some time before Sherlock speaks up again.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he practically whispers, not truly certain that he _wants_ to wake John again, “We’ll need to experiment further.”

John merely hums, clearly not aware of what he’s responding to, but Sherlock takes it as an agreement anyway.


	2. The Sweetest Dream Would Never Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John walks in to Sherlock’s room, changed and ready for bed, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight he sees.
> 
> “Sherlock, you are _not_ videotaping this,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest in a mix of anger and embarrassment.
> 
> “But how am I supposed to have accurate records for the experiments if we’re both asleep during it?”
> 
> “I think you’re overestimating how much sleep I’m actually getting when we share a bed,” John counters defensively, “I’m the one who tells you what happens in the night, in case you’ve forgotten.”
> 
> “Yes, but what if things are happening while we’re both asleep?”
> 
> John is silent as he gathers his courage to vocalize a question he’s not entirely certain he wants an answer to, “What the hell do you _think_ is happening? What is this experiment about, Sherlock?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I re-read this chapter to edit, it occurred to me how very "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" by Aerosmith this chapter is, hence the title. Oh, the fluff. I can't.

The next night, when John again makes a move towards his own bedroom, Sherlock speaks up.

“I’ll be waiting in my room when you’re finished changing,” he says without looking up from the laptop he’s currently using.

John sputters for a moment in confusion, “We’re continuing?”

Sherlock looks up and gives him his _Don’t be an idiot_ look. As he opens his mouth to belittle him, John waves his hand dismissively and turns towards his room once more, “No, forget it. I’ll come back.”

When John walks in to Sherlock’s room, changed and ready for bed, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight he sees.

“Sherlock, you are _not_ videotaping this,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest in a mix of anger and embarrassment.

“But how am I supposed to have accurate records for the experiments if we’re both asleep during it?”

“I think you’re overestimating how much sleep I’m actually getting when we share a bed,” John counters defensively, “I’m the one who tells you what happens in the night, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Yes, but what if things are happening while we’re both asleep?”

John is silent as he gathers his courage to vocalize a question he’s not entirely certain he wants an answer to, “What the hell do you _think_ is happening? What is this experiment about, Sherlock?”

“Testing to see how each other’s presence affects us; discovering our habits.”

“And I’ve _told_ you what your habits are; I already know _mine_ ,” he says defensively.

“And what is it that you think you do?” Sherlock counters petulantly.

“I talk and laugh in my sleep, and I still have nightmares occasionally,” he answers easily.

“That’s all?” He asks with a hint of a challenge.

“Yes.”

“You’re positive there’s nothing else?”

“Yes,” John states with confidence. He’s had plenty of sleep partners in the past who have told him about the sleep talking and laughing, and the nightmares are obvious.

“Would you bet on it?”

There’s a nagging feeling at the back of John’s mind as he thinks about how long it’s been since he’s shared a bed with anyone. He knows sleeping patterns and habits are prone to change with age and partner, so “No,” he admits quietly to his best friend, he is not willing to bet on it.

“Then the camera stays,” Sherlock says with confident finality, pleased with his perception of having won the debate, “Besides, you could be a biased narrator and my results need absolute proof. I can’t believe I let even one experiment go without thinking of this.”

Instead of fighting further, John pulls back the blankets on his side of the bed (he has _a side of Sherlock’s bed_ now. Goddammit, how does he get himself in to these situations?!) and climbs in with a huff, settling on to his back.

Sherlock finishes setting up the camera - and really, where he got his hands on a camcorder is not worth thinking on - and then turns the lights off before settling on his side of the bed, back against the headboard and laptop in his lap.

“Are you going to be on that all night? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” John taunts tiredly. It was a long day at the surgery, and last night’s rest was still not quite enough to negate the sleep he failed to get during their most recent case.

“I’m not tired yet; I don’t typically sleep two nights in a row,” Sherlock answers, already distracted by the laptop again.

“Then why am I here?” John grumps as he glares at the taller man.

Sherlock looks him in the eye with another _Don’t be an idiot look_ , but John has nowhere to escape to this time, so just has to bear it, “For the _experiment_ , John.”

“You’re going to see how much you can interrupt my sleep if you’re awake the entire time versus asleep?” He snarks, extremely displeased at the prospect.

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock stresses, “I’m going to see if my presence affects you in any way, even if I’m not sleeping, and also see if your presence affects my own sense of fatigue.”

John closes his eyes and shakes his head, “I can’t do this,” he mutters before turning on to his right side, his back facing the other man, and attempting to just end the day.

“John?” Sherlock asks, a bit of nervousness in his tone at the thought that John may refuse to continue the experiment.

“Your _brain_ , genius,” John elaborates, eyes still resolutely closed in preparation for sleep, “I’m far too tired to deal with your _brain_ right now.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes out in relief, “Goodnight, then, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

* * *

Sherlock distracts himself on his laptop until John falls asleep, and then can’t help as his attention is grabbed by the man. He’s not even _doing_ anything, yet he can’t look away.

Sherlock shakes his head and consciously breathes for the first time in a long while, bringing himself out of his John-induced trance. He makes a decision to attempt to sleep, so he closes the laptop and places it on the floor beside the bed before moving to lay on his right side, facing John’s back.

Watching John’s rhythmic breathing was enough to lull him in to sleep last night, but he’s just not tired enough for it tonight. He huffs a breath in aggravation knowing that he is bound to lie there listlessly all night.

 _‘No. Focus,’_ he admonishes himself. He can will himself to sleep, he _can_.

After what feels like hours of Sherlock trying - and failing - to fall asleep, John turns on to his left side, now facing Sherlock. The other man was just in the process of debating if he should just call it a wash for the night and head to the living room to play his violin instead.

Sherlock freezes, barely breathing, as he watches John’s right hand reach out towards him. It comes to rest with the front of his fingers pressed against Sherlock’s left forearm, in the unclaimed territory between them. Sherlock searches John’s face, but he’s still clearly asleep and unaware of the motion that his body has made towards his own. It doesn’t mean anything.

Sherlock bites his lower lip as his eyes fall back to where they’re connected. He moves his arm away from John’s touch slowly before gently, with a quivering hand he would never admit to, lowering his left hand to John’s right. He startles slightly as John releases a content hum and moves a bit closer, somehow finding a way to intertwine their fingers in a way that isn’t entirely uncomfortable.

This is how Sherlock spends the next significant portion of his life. He doesn’t know how long it is and, for once, he really doesn’t care. He’s absolutely entranced by the emotions that pass over John’s face as he dreams, fancying that he could possibly even say what the dream entails simply by watching him. John smiles and quietly chuckles three times, his brow furrows in confusion eight times, and he slowly shuffles closer to Sherlock to the point where Sherlock also has to move to keep their still-entwined hands in a relatively comfortable position.

After awhile, John obviously is growing uncomfortable lying on his left shoulder for so long, so - however unwillingly - Sherlock lets go of his hand and guides him gently to his back. John turns his face away from him and Sherlock is disgruntled to find that he misses looking at his face.

Is this what loving someone feels like? He’s never been in love, only theorized it enough to be able to fake it for cases in the past. But, if he had to place a descriptor on his feelings for his best friend, the ache in his chest demands that the word be: besotted.

Great, so he loves a man who has multiple times announced that he isn’t gay and has never shown an interest in him whatsoever.

 _‘Hasn’t he?’_ his evil inner voice asks. Because, really, he _has_. He was clearly interested that first night at Angelo’s and numerous other times in the first year and a half that they lived together. Nothing has been the same since Sherlock’s return, and he has never seen the same looks in John’s eyes as he used to. If anything, his time away opened Sherlock up to admitting how much he cares for John while at the same time John was trying to heal over the loss by pretending he never did.

What a mess he’s made of everything.

So here he lies next to the only man he’s ever loved and yet will never have, because the truth of the matter is that he doesn’t _deserve_ John…especially not after all the things he’s put him through. He allows himself exactly one moment to close his eyes and shake his head against the pain at the thought before he rolls over to grab his phone from the night stand.

4:11am.

He knows that he cannot keep laying here and watching John, dealing with his own depressing thoughts on the matter, so he carefully stands from the bed and makes his way to the living room. He takes a quick trip in to the loo before grabbing his violin and returning to the bedroom. He may not be able to sleep with John tonight, but he can use the failure to test out a new experiment idea anyway.

As Sherlock softly plays soothing melodies that he knows John likes, he continues to watch his face to judge how it is affecting John’s sleep pattern.

The camera keeps rolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the positive feedback so far! I'd love to keep hearing your thoughts on these chapters if you're willing to spare a second to do so.


	3. I Will Follow You into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long while since they’ve had a case of real interest and excitement – of the “chasing criminals through the streets and staying one step ahead of danger” variety. The thrill of those cases always keeps the nightmares at bay, because his mind doesn’t need to relive the war to remember the adventure.
> 
> It’s not so much PTSD anymore - sounds are fine, smells are fine, pictures are fine – but more about missing the uncertainty, feeling so _alive_. It’s not that the nightmares are at all pleasant, because they are anything but, however they tend to leave more of a feeling of loss than of torment these days.
> 
> So when John wakes up just a few hours after falling asleep - panting and sweating as his heart races and the sounds of shots and screams fade away in his ears - to find Sherlock kneeling next to his bed, he’s not entirely surprised. Sherlock knows better than to touch him, but his right hand is incredibly close to his left shoulder, their left hands centimeters from each other as Sherlock’s concerned gaze takes in every detail of John’s face.

The next two nights, John is permitted to sleep alone in his own bed upstairs. He thinks that he should be more pleased with this fact than he actually is. In fact, it almost sets him with a bit of unease.

It’s been a long while since they’ve had a case of real interest and excitement – of the “chasing criminals through the streets and staying one step ahead of danger” variety. The thrill of those cases always keeps the nightmares at bay, because his mind doesn’t need to relive the war to remember the adventure.

It’s not so much PTSD anymore - sounds are fine, smells are fine, pictures are fine – but more about missing the uncertainty, feeling so _alive_. It’s not that the nightmares are at all pleasant, because they are anything but, however they tend to leave more of a feeling of loss than of torment these days.

So when John wakes up just a few hours after falling asleep - panting and sweating as his heart races and the sounds of shots and screams fade away in his ears - to find Sherlock kneeling next to his bed, he’s not entirely surprised. Sherlock knows better than to touch him, but his right hand is incredibly close to his left shoulder, their left hands centimeters from each other as Sherlock’s concerned gaze takes in every detail of John’s face.

John is still panting, but slowly getting his breathing under control. His muscles ache from being tense and he stares tiredly at the ceiling instead of Sherlock’s eyes because he is just so mentally and physically exhausted. Once he calms, Sherlock finally speaks.

“Do you want some tea?” He asks quietly.

John shakes his head tiredly, “No, not this time,” sometimes he does, depending on how emotionally upsetting the nightmare was; other times he simply wants to go back to sleep. He’s always nervous that he may slip right back in to the nightmare where he had escaped, but it has only actually happened a handful of times.

Sherlock’s left hand moves to cover John’s finally, squeezing reassuringly, “Okay.”

John doesn’t have a good grasp on his friend’s hand in return, but he squeezes back reassuringly as best he can. As John unknowingly begins to drift off, face turned away from the other man, Sherlock speaks up again.

“John?” He questions quietly, a bit unsure of himself.

“Mmm?” John grunts in response, eyes opening slowly as he turns his head to look at him again.

“Could I stay with you?”

John simply smiles sleepily before he turns on to his right side, leaving room behind him for Sherlock to join him. His bed is smaller than Sherlock’s, but it’s certainly big enough for two. Sherlock stands gracefully before situating himself behind John, also on his right side so he’s facing the other man. There is, as usual, a small expanse of unclaimed space between them; a neutral void where the rules do not apply. Sherlock reaches his left hand across this space to place the backs of his fingers against John’s spine comfortingly. He feels John breathe in a deep breath before letting it out slowly, the tension leaving his body.

Sherlock bites his lip as he fights a guilty feeling in his gut. He knows as well as John does that his nightmares come back when there’s a lull in the cases that involve a larger amount of leg work – the more dangerous, the better.

The next morning, after John has left for work at the surgery, Sherlock takes a cab to New Scotland Yard.

“What do you mean you have _nothing_ for me?” Sherlock yells at Lestrade in his office.

“I mean that the only cases on right now don’t even hit a 5 on your scale,” Lestrade bites back in annoyance.

“Oh please, don’t try to pretend that you understand the first thing about my scale.”

Lestrade practices calming breathing for a few moments so that he doesn’t strangle the git, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I really don’t have anything requiring your assistance.”

“But I’m _bored_ ,” he stresses with a small pout.

“And I am _not_ your bloody nanny in charge of keeping you entertained!”

Sherlock knows he has a point, but he needs to find an exciting case. _Now._ “Please,” he asks quieter, desperate.

Lestrade closes his eyes (he’s always done better dealing with Sherlock if he can’t see his manipulative face) and shakes his head, “Alright,” he concedes, eyes opening again and grabbing a stack of files from his desk, offering them out, “These are the cases we have right now. You can take a look and see if there’s anything you can help with, but I swear there’s nothing here worth your time, bored or no.”

Sherlock graces him with a small, grateful smile as he grabs the files and sits down, “Thank you.”

Lestrade shakes his head again, in bemusement this time, and goes about ignoring the other man.

* * *

“Come on, John, we’re losing him!” Sherlock shouts at his companion as they chase the murderer.

Sherlock had discovered the case earlier in the day and followed the leads. It was a death that was being half-heartedly investigated by NSY due to “slightly suspicious circumstances”. The grandmother was slowly poisoned by her grandson for the inheritance; he had fallen on some hard times and needed the money sooner rather than whenever the old bat decided to die herself.

As soon as John had gotten home, Sherlock had dragged him out on the case and now they were chasing the lad through backstreets and alleys, the blood pumping through their veins. Sherlock may have found the case for John, but he was enjoying himself immensely, as well; they had both needed this.

“Right,” John agrees, pushing himself faster.

After another minute of pursuit, the murderer changes tactics. He stops suddenly and doubles over, causing John to fly over him on to the pavement. John groans as he lies on his back, attempting to get his breath back. Before he can, the suspect has him standing in his arms, held steady as a knife is placed against his neck hard enough to draw a bit of blood.

Both John and Sherlock freeze and the suspect (Larry, of all the silly names) pants in to John’s right ear.

“Do not move,” Larry tells Sherlock.

Sherlock places his hands in the air placatingly. John can see them shaking slightly, but he knows the other man is in control. John wills himself to remain calm and to _think._

“What is your plan?” Sherlock asks calmly, though inside he is frantic with the need to get John out of harms way.

“You let me get away, or I kill your friend.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “That’s not going to happen.”

“Which part?”

“Neither.”

The knife digs in a bit deeper and John can’t help the pained grunt that is pulled from him. He doesn’t really believe that Larry will kill him, but he sure is making things uncomfortable.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouts angrily.

“Just proving a point,” the arrogant young man sneers.

Sherlock sees that John is calm, plan worked out and ready to go, he just needs to give him an opportunity to act. He takes a step back.

“Did you know you weren’t in your grandmother’s will _before_ you killed her, or was that a fact that came to light later?” He asks innocently.

The statement is enough of a shock to Larry that his pressure on John’s neck is lifted. John pulls his head to the left, away from the knife, as he elbows his captor in the solar plexus, steps on his instep, punches him in the nose, and then lands a final blow to his groin all in quick succession.

Larry groans pathetically from his fetal position on the ground and Sherlock rushes forward to kick the knife out of his reach.

John touches the laceration on his neck lightly, trying to gauge how deep it is simply by the amount of blood. He can’t tell for certain, but he’s fairly sure that it’s superficial. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and places pressure on the wound, a slight grimace on his face at the discomfort.

Sherlock has Larry on his stomach now, face digging in to the rough ground as his right knee presses in to his back, his long-fingered hands grasping Larry’s together. Lestrade and his men arrive just two minutes later and take Larry away. The cab ride home is silent.

Shortly after returning home and bandaging his neck, John shifts uncertainly near the doorway, ready to head to bed.

He finally clears his throat, gaining the attention of his friend on the sofa, “Will you be sleeping tonight?” he asks as casually as possible. The safest route of asking the real question: _‘Which bed am_ I _sleeping in tonight?’_

Sherlock considers. He’s not done going through the case in his mind, perturbed with himself for having gotten John hurt when all he wanted to do was help him. Yes, it wasn’t really much of an injury but... “Maybe in a bit. Feel free to sleep in your own bed tonight if you’d like.”

“Right,” John says with a firm nod, trying not to think about the feeling of disappointment in his gut as he heads upstairs to sleep.

Sometime later, John wakes to the sound of his name being shouted, along with other sounds that don’t quite seem to form real words. He rushes downstairs to find Sherlock still on the sofa. The younger man is slouched awkwardly and is obviously in the fit of a nightmare.

“John, no!” he shouts again, face screwed up in pain and worry.

John hasn’t had to comfort someone having a nightmare before, like others have done for him, but he knows some basics. Without needing to worry about PTSD in Sherlock’s case, he makes a decision. He sits on the cushion next to his friend, not yet touching him. He lays his right hand very lightly against Sherlock’s left shoulder, the whisper of a touch. This appears to drain the worry from Sherlock, but replaces it with an intense sadness.

“John,” he calls quieter, as though he himself is lost.

John rests his hand more solidly against the shoulder while whispering “Shhh.”

They alternate this way for a few minutes: Sherlock calling out to him and John whispering “shhh” or “it’s okay” or “I’m here” as his hand slowly, gently moves down Sherlock’s arm. When John’s hand reaches the other man’s and entwines their fingers, Sherlock finally wakes.

“John?” he asks, uncertain and a bit frightened.

John smiles reassuringly, “You had a nightmare. You’re alright.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows as he calms down fairly quick. He seems to be reliving snippets of the nightmare before his entire being sags further in to the sofa tiredly.

“Want to talk about it?” John asks gently, not placing any pressure on him to do so.

Sherlock simply looks at him sadly, taking in his face and squeezes his fingers to reassure himself, but he ends up shaking his head no.

“Alright, time for bed, then,” he says, not unkindly, before standing and helping Sherlock to his feet, leading him by their still-entwined hands to the bedroom. John helps him in to his side of the bed before going back around to his own and climbing under the covers. Sherlock - lying on his right side - looks slightly confused as he watches John’s progress, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved that the other man plans to stay with him.

From his position lying on his back, John looks over at Sherlock softly and quietly bids him, “Come here, then.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to ask what he means. John knows Sherlock needs his comfort right now and he willingly gives it, wrapping his arms securely around his too-thin body as Sherlock settles against his side.

After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock whispers the answer he couldn’t before, “I had lost you. My nightmares are always about something happening to you.”

John swallows thickly as he pulls him closer and entwines their legs. He places his lips against Sherlock’s wild curls before whispering vehemently, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

No more words are needed and they eventually fall in to a peaceful slumber, Sherlock’s head and left hand resting near John’s beating heart.


	4. The Secrets That You Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock informs John that he should join him again, John becomes suspicious.
> 
> “You’re going to sleep four nights in a row?” He asks with a skeptical eyebrow raised, as this would be an unprecedented event.
> 
> Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly, “Nightmare must have taken more out of me than I originally figured,” he lies, hoping that John’s empathy will drop the conversation now that the nightmares have been brought up again. John notoriously avoids the subject, possibly worried that it will cause one to occur.
> 
> He still looks uncertain about whether he should believe Sherlock or not, but he agrees hesitantly anyway, “Alright then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a snippet of the line "I hear the secrets that you keep when you're talking in your sleep" from "Talking in Your Sleep" by The Romantics.
> 
> This chapter is not a song-fic, but anyone who is familiar with "Fantasies Come True" from the musical Avenue Q will notice some familiar lines. I consider it an homage, and I in no way mean any harm by their inclusion.
> 
> Like Sherlock and his dancing, this song has been following me, and I've been living in hope of the right (case) fanfic. It may have taken 11 years, but I finally managed it! But seriously, two roommates where the closeted (yet obviously) gay one is hopelessly in love with his supposedly straight roommate? COME ON!

Nightmares tend to take more out of Sherlock than most everything else in his life, so when he deigns to sleep with John again the next night, the older man is a bit shocked but accepting.

John comes in to Sherlock’s room to find the other man already on his side of the bed, the camera set up facing them.

“Back to that again, eh?” John asks conversationally as he lifts the covers and climbs in.

Sherlock looks up from his phone curiously before putting the pieces together, “Oh, that. Yes. Well, the last couple of times it rather slipped my mind.”

“Makes sense,” John nods in understanding, not wishing to relive their nightmares, much less think about how calming each other’s presence was to the other in those times. John has never experienced such a peaceful night sleep after waking from a nightmare as when Sherlock was behind him, subtly comforting him.

If he wants to be honest about it (which he doesn’t) he hasn’t _ever_ slept as well as when Sherlock is in the bed with him.

He tries not to think about it as he settles on his back, head turned from Sherlock as usual. Sherlock sets his phone down and turns off the bedside lamp before assuming his customary position on his right side so that he can face John. John falls asleep within moments, but even with as tired as Sherlock is, he doesn’t fall asleep until John has unconsciously rolled on to his left side and allowed Sherlock’s hand to grasp his.

The next day, as Sherlock reviews the footage, he’s a bit surprised by what he finds. Physically they stayed close, even doing what most would classify as “cuddling”, but it’s the talking that catches him off guard. John had of course mentioned that he talks in his sleep at times, but Sherlock was unaware that _he_ did it, as well.

In fact, in the few instances through the night where they spoke, Sherlock was the one to initiate the conversations. They weren’t long or overly intelligent conversations, but a distinct back and forth in their sleep.

Sherlock first asked, “Is that a unicorn?” to which John responded, “Watch out for Voldemort, he needs the blood.”

Awhile later, Sherlock made a statement, “No, I’ll wear the purple shoes,” to which John agreed, “They look better with the shirt.”

Next came Sherlock’s inquiry of, “Who painted the kitten?” to which John replied with such conviction, “The dog walker. Had to be.”

Then the coup de gras: Sherlock admitting, “I love you, John,” while pulling him closer, watching John smile slightly before returning, “I love your little laugh.”

Sherlock buries his face in his hands, unaware how to cope with the information in front of him. He needs to research.

A quick internet search gives him mixed reviews on the honesty of sleep talking. Some articles claim that the coherent statements are true while the incoherent ramblings probably mean nothing. However, some scientists claim that there is no sound basis for declaring one way or the other, but that it’s best not to place too much stock in the words being true.

But, Sherlock reasons, if he can work the experiment like a lie-detector test by asking easily corroborated questions, he should be able to tell that way. He spends the rest of the day coming up with a plan, as well as a list of questions for the night.

When Sherlock informs John that he should join him again, John becomes suspicious.

“You’re going to sleep four nights in a row?” He asks with a skeptical eyebrow raised, as this would be an unprecedented event.

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly, “Nightmare must have taken more out of me than I originally figured,” he lies, hoping that John’s empathy will drop the conversation now that the nightmares have been brought up again. John notoriously avoids the subject, possibly worried that it will cause one to occur.

He still looks uncertain about whether he should believe Sherlock or not, but he agrees hesitantly anyway, “Alright then.”

John walks in to the same situation as before: Sherlock in the bed on his phone, the camera set up near the foot of the bed. He sighs warily as he lies down. Sherlock turns off the light and settles, everything feeling very similar to the night before.

John opens his mouth to inquire, one last time, about the legitimacy of Sherlock’s exhaustion, but Sherlock beats him to it with a yawn and a quiet, “Goodnight, John,” before closing his eyes and feigning sleep.

John merely sighs quietly, an uneasy feeling in his gut, and echoes the sentiment back.

Once Sherlock feels John settle in to sleep, he opens his eyes to merely watch him. When John turns on to his left side and Sherlock has assessed that John has most likely safely entered a REM cycle, he begins his questions.

“What is your name?” Sherlock asks quietly, having tried to match the volume from the video footage from last night.

“John.”

“What is your middle name?”

“Hamish.”

“What is your sister’s name?”

“Harry.”

“What is your birthday?”

“April 1st.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows, “March 31st,” he corrects.

“No, Sherlock never remembers when it is, either. _He_ thinks it’s one day earlier than it really is.”

“Why don’t you ever correct him?” Sherlock asks, consciously using the same terminology as John.

“Because I sort of like the idea of us celebrating it on our own day; to hear it from him before anyone else.”

Sherlock is speechless at the admission, how tender it sounds coming from his sleepy mouth. The other answers were all honest, so it’s reasonable to assume that this is, too. Simply because it’s hard to believe doesn’t make it all that less likely, does it?

Sherlock clears his throat lightly before following John’s answers to a new question: “Who are you speaking to right now?”

“A stranger with a blindfold.”

“Where are you?”

“A park.”

“Do you trust this stranger?”

“Yes. I don’t know why, but I know I can.”

“Are you married?” He decides to return to his list of questions. They’re designed specifically to test the validity of things said while asleep, not for any personal gain.

“Divorced. Now I consider myself married to my work.”

Sherlock is taken aback by hearing his own words from so long ago parroted back at him, “Sherlock said that.”

“I guess it’s a sentiment we both share now.”

“John, what do you do for a living?”

“I work with Sherlock Holmes. He solves these amazing cases and I try to relay on my blog how he does it. I don’t think I do him justice, but people seem impressed anyway.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m also a doctor at a surgery. I miss working with trauma patients, but my work with Sherlock helps with that.”

“In one word, what is your work?” He asks with his heart racing, needing the clarity.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock freezes, unable to believe that he’s understood this part correctly, even with the honesty of every other answer.

“Are you still there?” John asks.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Why did you stop talking?”

“Couldn’t think of what to say,” he answers honestly.

“What do you _want_ to say?”

Sherlock hesitates, even with the prompting, “Do you love him?” he asks quietly before clarifying, “Sherlock, I mean.”

“Yes.”

His heart literally stutters in his chest and he feels a bit feint, “Why haven’t you told him?” he asks with his eyes closed.

“And scare him off?” he scoffs, “No, thank you.”

Sherlock’s eyes open again, “Why would that scare him off? You don’t think he loves you in return?”

John sighs, “Sometimes I think he might, but then I remember that he doesn’t feel things that way and tell myself I imagined whatever it was.”

Sherlock softly places his left hand on John’s cheek, barely caressing, “You’re wrong.”

His brow furrows, “Which part?”

“He loves you, too,” he admits on the barest of breaths before becoming emboldened, “ _I_ love you.”

John wakes suddenly at the admission, groggy enough at first for Sherlock to remove his hand from his cheek in alarm, but not quickly enough for him to feign sleep.

“Sherlock?” John looks confused, hearing the traces of _‘I love you’_ in what feels like a memory instead of a dream.

“Alright, John?” Sherlock feigns calm while in his chest his heart is racing. John is too tired to completely comprehend the fear in Sherlock’s eyes, “You were talking in your sleep.”

“I thought you were talking in _your_ sleep,” he counters in confusion, not entirely sure that’s true. But those words…

“No, I haven’t been to sleep yet,” he assures him, then at John’s continued look of confusion he takes a calculated risk, “Sounded like a nice dream, though.”

John’s eyes land on Sherlock’s lips for a moment before he looks back up, “Yes. It _was_ a nice dream.”

Sherlock smiles slightly at this, reassured, “Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

John falls back to sleep quickly, but even if Sherlock thought he could follow suit at one point, he knows there isn’t any hope after what just happened. He doesn’t ask any more questions aloud, but spends the rest of the night deciding which answers he can trust and how that makes him feel.


	5. If I Told You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves his face lower so that their mouths are a mere breath away, his words coming to rest on his lips as Sherlock longs for the press of them against his own, “I think about your lips and how they would feel against mine,” he whispers, “I think about how swollen I could get them from kissing you for so long. Because I would, Sherlock,” it comes out as both a promise and a threat simultaneously, “I fear I wouldn’t be able to ever stop kissing them if you gave me the chance. Would you let me?”
> 
> “Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes out heavily, longing to bridge the small gap between them.
> 
> John smirks in triumph, his hands coming up to frame Sherlock’s face as he slowly moves his mouth yet closer. He stops when their lips just barely touch, a teasing caress that promises more but isn’t nearly enough, “I know you would,” he whispers before pulling back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I told you  
> All the words I've yet to say  
> Would they matter?  
> Or would you simply turn and walk away?  
> -"If I Told You" from Wedding Singer the Musical  
> (Can't tell I love musicals, can you?)

The next three days have them fairly well consumed in a case. Not a dangerous one, but it offers many opportunities for Sherlock to admire his companion in a new light. Sherlock watches as John exercises his wit and performs some deductions, but best of all: he exhibits his strength by forcing the suspect against the wall and threatening him in a low tone.

Sherlock has burdened himself with the task of figuring out if he could give John everything in life that he deserves. He’s come to the conclusion that, no, John is far too good for someone like him, but he shocks himself with his desire to work harder to be worthy of him nonetheless.

When they arrive home the evening that the case finishes, Sherlock doesn’t even need to mention that John should come to his room once he’s changed; sleeping after a case - especially a long one such as this - is a given even outside of this experiment that he has no idea how to end. The truth of the matter is that Sherlock didn’t outline too many parameters of the study because he wasn’t certain what he was looking for. It was mostly just how they reacted to each other’s presence, so it’s difficult to decide when it’s done. Especially because he doesn’t want to go back to sleeping without John by his side.

John doesn’t comment on the video camera at the end of the bed, nor much of anything as he settles. He’s pretty exhausted and he doesn’t feel the need to pretend that he doesn’t understand Sherlock’s routine by now.

“Night, Sherlock,” he says on a yawn, lying on his back with his head turned towards the door as usual.

“Goodnight,” Sherlock agrees, placing his phone on the nightstand, turning off the lamp, and settling on his right side facing John.

The next thing Sherlock registers is sitting in his chair next to a blazing fireplace in their living room. John is standing not too far from him wearing jeans, a brown belt, a plaid button-up, and a red cardigan. John’s hands are in his pockets and he’s calmly looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock spends enough time in his Mind Palace with this John to recognize him straight away, but he’s uncertain why he’s here.

“You did well today,” John praises.

Sherlock turns his head slightly in confusion, “Thank you?”

“I mean it. Utterly brilliant,” he continues, “I could watch you solve crimes all day and be perfectly happy.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Mind Palace John removes his hands from his pockets as he steps smoothly toward Sherlock’s chair, walking around it in a slow circle, “Come on,” he chides in good humor, “you love when I compliment you, and I love to do it. There’s no harm.”

“Okay,” he says, at a loss for other words.

“Would you like to know what else I love to do?” There’s a mischievous glint in John’s eyes as he continues his circle towards the back of the chair again, almost like he knows something that Sherlock doesn’t, but that can’t be possible can it? A version of John that he created cannot know things that Sherlock himself does not. Without waiting for an answer, John leans down behind Sherlock to whisper in his right ear, “I love to think about you after. Think about how brilliant you are as I touch myself, alone in my room and wishing for you to catch me in the act. To deduce me with that brilliant brain of yours and realize just how long and very thoroughly I am yours.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches as his cock responds to the words, filling at the same time as his desire for this man does.

John stands and slowly comes back around the chair so that they are face to face. He keeps eye contact as he places his knees on either side of Sherlock’s hips, his hands on the other man’s shoulders. And then he continues in a soft seduction.

“I think about your curls and how I’d love to grab hold of them and tug just enough to cause pleasure, not pain,” he says, threading a hand in to the curls to demonstrate. Sherlock moans at the oddly delicious feeling of the slight tug on his roots.

“I think about your cheekbones and The Woman’s words echo in my mind, about how she could cut herself on them,” he continues while reverently tracing them with his thumbs, “I long to try.”

John moves his face lower so that their mouths are a mere breath away, his words coming to rest on his lips as Sherlock longs for the press of them against his own, “I think about your lips and how they would feel against mine,” he whispers, “I think about how swollen I could get them from kissing you for so long. Because I would, Sherlock,” it comes out as both a promise and a threat simultaneously, “I fear I wouldn’t be able to ever stop kissing them if you gave me the chance. Would you let me?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes out heavily, longing to bridge the small gap between them.

John smirks in triumph, his hands coming up to frame Sherlock’s face as he slowly moves his mouth yet closer. He stops when their lips just barely touch, a teasing caress that promises more but isn’t nearly enough, “I know you would,” he whispers before pulling back.

While Sherlock moans in disappointment, John is already moving his face to the right side of Sherlock’s neck, his hands falling away again.

“I think about this freckle,” he says of the mark near his adam’s apple, “and about how sensitive you must be near it,” he places a light kiss to it and causes another moan to be ripped unwillingly from the lanky man below him.

“John, please,” he begs, though he’s not entirely certain what he’s begging _for_. It doesn’t even matter.

“I know,” he agrees, “Soon,” but then he continues moving his attention downwards, running his hands over his chest, “I think about your chest; about how your sheet hardly covers it and your shirts do little more than the sheet.”

John hisses in arousal, his hips moving in a small circle as they attempt to gain any friction on the hot, proud erection that he’s sporting. Sherlock lets out another moan in sympathy, his hips lifting to try to satisfy the aching in his own trousers, but John’s body isn’t near enough. Sherlock grabs his hips instinctively and brings him down to offer them both a bit of relief. They moan as their cocks connect through the layers of clothing that still separate them.

John places his hands over Sherlock’s before rising on his knees again, breaking the contact below, “I think about your hands,” he pants, eyes practically afire with desire as he looks at Sherlock hungrily, “your graceful, _beautiful_ hands. I think of them on my body, touching everywhere. They would map out every detail as you deduce what I like most, and you would play me with the same incredible knowledge you possess of your violin. Oh, how you would make me sing for you.”

Sherlock moans as John undulates above him, still too far away to actually feel him beyond the hands that grip his tightly. John throws his head back and bites his lower lip, possibly trying to control himself, though it seems impossible at the moment.

“John, please,” he begs again, more adamant this time as his cock aches to be touched again.

John’s eyes meet his again and he hears his name from that familiar voice, but John’s mouth hadn't moved. Sherlock’s brow furrows in absolute confusion; it shouldn’t be possible, so what does it mean?

From Sherlock’s bed in the dark room, the real John is wrestling with both of their bodies. Sherlock is practically frotting against him while he seemingly calls out to John on sinful moans, and John can’t quite bring himself to pull away from him as he rubs their hard cocks together.

“Sherlock,” he tries again, half imploring, half moaning.

“Please,” Sherlock moans again, left hand tightening on his hip and pulling him somehow closer for a roll of hips.

John moans and lifts his right hand to Sherlock’s cheek, his face pressed desperately to Sherlock’s, “God, Sherlock, _yes_ ,” he agrees, “If you wake up and…” he stops suddenly as Sherlock rolls his hips again, “ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, “wake _up_ you bastard.”

In his mind, Sherlock keeps hearing words in John’s voice but the John above him hasn’t moved his mouth at all, has simply frozen staring at him hungrily. When he feels a hand on his left cheek without John moving his arm, he is shocked to realize that maybe - just maybe - the noises and touches are coming from outside of his mind, which would mean…

“John,” he breathes in revelation as his eyes open.

“Oh thank God, there you are,” John mutters, flushed with arousal.

Sherlock quickly takes stock of their positioning: bodies pressed flush against each other - including their hard cocks connected through flimsy pajama bottoms - with Sherlock’s left hand grasping John’s hip while John’s right hand rests on his cheek. He realizes that he feels just as desperate for this man as he did in his dream, and judging by John’s pupils blown wide and his body practically thrumming against his, he wants this, too.

Sherlock locks eyes with him a bit guiltily, unsure what to do now that his consciousness has reclaimed its hold. To his horror, Sherlock’s hips thrust forward of their own volition, reminding both men that their erections have not abated one iota. They both moan and John can’t help himself as he dives in to claim Sherlock’s lips with his own, his right hand moving from his cheek to the back of his head to hold him tight. Sherlock moans deep in his throat as John pulls slightly at his hair, same as in his dream.

John growls possessively as he moves that same hand firmly down the other man’s body to grab at his left thigh. He pulls Sherlock’s leg up and over his a bit while slotting his own right leg further between his, bringing their cocks closer.

As they rut, they grow frustrated. It is a fantastic level of torture, but it’s not nearly enough for either man. John leads Sherlock’s body onto his back with his mere presence, and Sherlock follows willingly as he wraps his legs around John’s waist instinctively.

John fumbles with the layers that are still so frustratingly in the way. He moves them just enough for their cocks to connect and grasp them both in his left hand. John thrusts against Sherlock and in to his own hand as Sherlock bows his back, his head tipping back in ecstasy. John leans down and sucks at the freckle to the right of Sherlock’s adam’s apple as he brings them both to mind-shattering, life-altering orgasms.

John falls to the left, bringing Sherlock with him so that they’re cuddled together on their sides once more. He kisses Sherlock’s mouth tenderly as they both fight to regain their breath.

“That was amazing,” John breathes out reverently while smiling.

“Was it?” Sherlock huffs a bit, uncertain how this will affect their relationship now that the haze of lust has been lifted. He’s scared to lose this man because of one stupid wet dream.

John looks at him curiously, “Of course it was. You disagree?”

Sherlock shakes his head sadly, “No, but…”

“But what next?” John finishes for him knowingly, “But was it a mistake? But will it happen again? But do we regret it?”

“ _Do_ you regret it?” Sherlock asks honestly, unable to hide the fear in his eyes.

John kisses him again, “Not one moment,” he assures.

“How?” He asks honestly, still wary about this not meaning to John what it meant to him.

“Because,” he pauses briefly to examine his eyes, coming to a conclusion, “I love you, you idiot.”

Sherlock knows this from the other night when he questioned John in his sleep, but to hear him say it of his own conscious freewill is everything. He can’t say the words yet himself; has never said them to another person, but he feels it so strongly within the very fiber of his being. He kisses John hard, hoping he’ll get the message all the same. John’s glowing smile and knowing eyes when they separate tell him that he understands, and for now it's enough.

They simply stare at each other, exchanging light kisses for awhile until John yawns. They’re suddenly very aware that it’s still the middle of the night.

“Your presence sent my body in to a wet dream,” Sherlock states in wonder, and John recognizes that tone.

“Oh God, please, Sherlock,” he whines, hiding his face against Sherlock’s, “Do _not_ turn our newly discovered sex life in to an experiment right now. Just… _stay_ ,” he says as he pulls him close again, “and sleep.”

“And then we can try again?” Sherlock asks hopefully, a bit shy.

John chuckles, “Yes, Sherlock. And I’ll even sweeten the deal by agreeing to whatever experiment you’re working out in your head if you just, please, let me get a few more hours of sleep.”

After a few moments, Sherlock agrees with a smile, “I think you’ll enjoy what I come up with.”

John simply chuckles sleepily in agreement, too near the edge of unconsciousness to form words, and pulls Sherlock more solidly against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For not imagining this ever really happening, I had a pretty great time writing this and thinking up ideas.
> 
> Now, I _know_ I left the door open for a part 3 of the series with this ending (which purposefully echos the end of "The Cure for Snoring"), but experiments of their sex life will really not happen from me. I'm not creative enough (or good enough, quite honestly) to imagine a whole slew of those. So just go ahead and let your imagination run wild with the idea ;)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so, so much for taking the time to read this; I hope you were able to find some enjoyment here. A special thank you to all those who commented along the way letting me know that you were enjoying it; I hope the ending was just as good for you ;)
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts via comment, kudos, or constructive criticism!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goddess-of-the-night04) for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


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